26. Problems with Perfection
Hello, beloved friend,
Truth?
You are a bit of a perfectionist.
No use arguing. It’s true.
You know what’s right and what’s wrong.
And you make it known—not always secretly—that you know how things should be.
Nothing wrong with this.
Well, nothing wrong with it much of the time.
It’s just that, Beloved, you are not right all the time.
Because there are things that don’t go how you think they should go.
Which doesn’t mean they were wrong. Or that you were right.
Perfectionism, as I’m certain you have noticed, gets us into conflict with what is.
***
The Saturday Service
Two weeks ago
In each hand, I hold up—so my friends in Zoom can see them—an index card, cut into a rough silhouette of a person.
“The left hand is what we discern, what we notice, what we observe,” I say, chuckling., “That’s where it starts…it starts with learning that the person who annoys you got a new car. Before we judge, we notice. We notice, THEN we judge. Always in that order. We notice that the person we don’t like got a new car; then comes “the judgment”—they don’t deserve a new car.”
I put these words on the screen: “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
I continue, “Steven Covey attributes these words to Victor Frankl. Though, notice this—and then notice any judgment that follows—these words are not Frankl’s. The attribution is known to be erroneous.”
“Can you sometimes notice noticing before you react? Because that’s the idea. There is a moment in which we can, if we train ourselves to do so, choose our response.”
“That person we don’t like just got a fancy new car? We could also—if we learn to do this and practice it—wish them well.
It might take some practice, but we can do it.
***
NE Portland, my backyard
One week ago
I am pruning suckers from the four tomato plants. It’s early August, and the crop thus far is only two cherry tomatoes.
I know not to rush plants.
But I kinda do, anyhow.
(Brings the Parable of the Fig Tree to my mind.)
As I prune, I pick up the phone to chat with a beloved, in their garden, thousands of miles away. (Which is a miracle I don’t take in until I’m writing about it right now.)
They tell me, ebulliently, “I almost forgot to tell you. I did it. I did it. I did that thing. I made a choice.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Yesterday, I noticed that my partner wasn’t doing what I asked, and they just asked me again if they were doing it right—which they weren’t—and I thought, “I would usually yell at this point, but I realized, I don’t have to.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say, because they are proud and telling me.
And I know my job is to encourage positive growth.
They continue, “I know. I know. I knew I didn’t need to yell, but I chose to yell. I did it. I made a choice.”
I’m flummoxed because I think they’ve chosen wrong.
Fortunately, I have trained myself to be supportive.
“That’s wonderful,” I say again, though, I’m not sure I understand why.
And then they let me know: “I know! I chose it. I had a choice. I proved I could make the choice.”
I finish up: “You get an A+ for positive momentum towards love and noticing it. Good work.”
—
Beloved, occasional perfectionist,
If you object to my giving an A+ to someone who clearly chose the wrong option, I’d ask you to consider the parable of the prodigal sons.
My friend might have gotten only 5% on the assignment—they chose to yell at their partner—but it is still a net gain of movement in a positive direction.
And that—like all the small wins—ought to be fully celebrated!
Good job, my occasional perfectionist friend.
